


Shot In The Dark

by TaliskerMortem



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Cabin Fic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kid Fic, M/M, Mage Stiles, Pack Bonding, Scent Marking, Single Parent Derek, Snowed In, dad derek, montana
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:02:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9959666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaliskerMortem/pseuds/TaliskerMortem
Summary: Roscoe was standing a few feet away from the woodpile stacked against the side of the cabin under the overhang. His ears were facing forward and his eyes were fixed on something lurking in the shadows there. Stiles cocked the rifle. And then he heard it: the entirely unexpected but utterly unmistakable sound of a baby crying.OR: The one in which Stiles lives alone in an old cabin in the Montana woods when suddenly a man with a beard and three young children come stumbling into his life in the middle of the night and turn it upside down.





	1. Luck Is Expensive

The whistling wind whipped around the cabin in a frenzy, tormenting the shutters and dancing through the branches of the surrounding furs. Everything was covered in a sheen of white, the snow lending a bitter edge to the storm. Stiles pulled the frayed edges of the blanket tighter as he tried to focus on the words in front of him rather than the blizzard outside. Lying at his feet, Roscoe continued to whine, ears flat against his head. Sighing, Stiles abandoned his efforts to read and folded over the corner of his page before discarding the book on the floor beside his chair. It was not that interesting anyway.

“Come on boy,” Stiles murmured, pushing the blankets aside as he stood up and headed towards the kitchen area, filling up the kettle before placing it on the ancient AGA and waiting for it to boil. Roscoe padded softly behind him, ears now twitching this way and that with every new noise. “There boy, I’m sorry I didn't fix the shutters yesterday, they’re making such a racket aren’t they?” he muttered, scratching the husky affectionately behind the ears.

The kettle whistled. Roscoe’s ears perked up. Stiles chuckled as the dog froze, ears twitching faintly as he moved the kettle from the stove and pulled his favourite mug from the cupboard. Roscoe barked.

“Hey boy, it’s okay it’s just the kettle,” he sighed, rummaging through the cupboard for his box of tea. Roscoe barked again, head cocking to the side. “You okay boy?” Stiles frowned. Blinking twice up at him, the husky turned and trotted toward the front door, emitting several smaller yips in quick succession. “What the-”

Grabbing his jacket from its peg by the door and tugging on his boots, Stiles slid back the bolt before thinking twice and grabbing his rifle from beside the fireplace. Making sure it was loaded he carefully opened the door, Roscoe charging out ahead of him into the snowstorm. The wind hit him instantly, almost shoving him back into the cabin but he braced himself and pulled the door shut behind him.

He could barely see two feet in front of him as he climbed down from the porch and followed the sound of Roscoe’s barking, barely audible through the squall. The snow had piled up so it was almost waist high in some places but thankfully he had managed to clear a path around to the back to the cabin only that morning. Trudging through the still hefty layer of snow, hunched against the wind, he approached the barking dog.

Roscoe was standing a few feet away from the woodpile stacked against the side of the cabin under the overhang. His ears were facing forward and his eyes were fixed on something lurking in the shadows there. Stiles cocked the rifle.

And then he heard it: the entirely unexpected but utterly unmistakable sound of a baby crying.

“What the-” he choked off again, lowering the rifle as he stepped closer to the woodpile. Roscoe barked once more, tail wagging ever so slightly. Peering hesitantly around the side of the neatly stacked logs, Stiles found himself face to face with a beard. Or rather, a man with a beard. But very little could be seen of his face other than his beard. Blinking, Stiles forced his mind to focus.

Clutched to the man’s chest was a strange lumpy shape, emitting the fragmented sounds of a baby in distress. Stiles stared. A movement by the man’s knee caught his eye and he looked down to see the tiny face of a child, clinging to the man’s leg and whimpering.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered, eyes darting back up to the man’s. Stiles could not tell whether he was going to fight him or flee from him. “What the _hell_ ,” he muttered before coming to his senses.

He unloaded the rifle, pocketing the bullets before leaning it against the stacked logs. “Come on little one,” Stiles ordered, holding out his arms to the child. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. We’re going to get you inside and out of this freaking snowstorm, okay?” Stiles smiled and the child hesitantly let go the man’s leg and tittered towards Stiles.

The man growled.

“Shut up and get inside,” Stiles ordered, swinging the kid up onto his hip. “If you stay out here you will freeze to death.” Once again the man looked torn between flight or fight but eventually pried himself away from the meagre shelter of the woodpile to follow Stiles as he headed back the way he had come, his hand tucking the child’s face into his neck, away from the biting wind.

The door swung open with a clatter, causing the child in his arms to flinch. Quickly stepping inside, Roscoe tanged at his feet, he practically pulled the other man in before slamming the door shut again behind them and sliding the bolt back into place. Inside the cabin was eerily quiet in comparison to the relentlessness of the wind outside.

“Come on kiddo, let’s get you out of these clothes,” he murmured, crouching down to put the child on the floor and helping them to pull off their sodden layers. Pulling back the hood and hat, Stiles released a head of messy brown hair, plastered to the boy’s forehead. Big brown eyes stared up at him as he continued to pull the rest of the boy’s clothes off, leaving him only in his relatively dry underwear. Grabbing several blankets off the chair he had vacated only minutes beforehand, he wrapped them around the boy and instructed him to sit in front of the fading fire, adding a few extra logs to it and poking it back to life.

Once he was satisfied he turned his attention back to the man, who had managed to unzip his coat but was struggling with the ties of the sling holding the baby to his front. It was only then that Stiles realised there was another infant strapped to the man’s back.

Whispering profanities under his breath, Stiles approached the man and, despite some wariness, he let Stiles help get the back carrier off first. The child on his back was younger than the one currently sitting in front of his fireplace but older than the baby that was still crying pitifully against the man’s chest. Stiles got the child out of the complicated carrier, tossing it carelessly to the ground as he tried to cradle the child to his chest.

“Hey there little one,” he cooed but the child thrashed in his arms, reaching out for the man. He quickly handed the child over and watched as he buried his face in the man’s neck. Instead he opted to untangle the sling on the man’s front and get to the baby. Having been tucked safely under the man’s coat, the baby was for the most part dry but the smell was enough to cause Stiles to wince. Baby diapers were not something Stiles tended to stock.

Suddenly the man swayed precariously to the side, his hand grabbing at the mantelpiece to stop himself from falling. Stiles grabbed the child, who was immediately started to protest and handed him to the little boy, laying the baby down beside them. He gripped the man’s arm and guided him to the chair, forcing him to sit.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, eyes already searching for injuries. In response, the man’s eyes rolled up into his head and he passed out cold.

Brilliant.

Stiles yanked at his clothes, pulling off the jumper and layered shirts beneath, hands touching something damp and slimy before he actually saw the blood, soaking through his torn undershirt. “Why is this my life,” he muttered, tossing the ruined clothing aside.

At the side of the room was an ancient pull-out couch, which Stiles hastily pulled out, throwing the cushions and blankets to the side before grabbing a clean sheet and covering the threadbare mattress. Returning to the unconscious man, he shucked off his own jacket and boots before bending over and grabbing him under the armpits. Suddenly grateful for years of hauling wood, he half carried, half dragged the man to the couch. Laying him on the makeshift bed, he pulled off the man’s boots and sodden jeans, as well as his destroyed undershirt.

There was a gaping wound in his side, three parallel cuts, starting just below his nipple and ending at the dimple of his spine. Stiles would recognise such marks anywhere. The man’s thigh was also bleeding, only this wound was oozing an all too familiar black gunk. A gunshot. No exit wound.

“Fuck,” Stiles sighed, getting up and heading into his backroom to get his medical supplied. In the background, the baby was still letting out the occasional pitiful sob. The older boy was watching him whilst the younger one had his face buried in the older one’s chest. Roscoe was curled against them, letting the boys use him as a backrest. Stiles’ heart constricted but if he didn't act now, the man could die.

Washing his hands quickly with anti-bac, he braced himself. No matter how many times he had to do this it was never going to be pleasant. Sticking his fingers in the gunshot wound, he searched around for the bullet. His fingers grazed metal and he carefully pinched it, slowly extracting it from the man’s thigh. Wiping it clean, he checked the engravings. Unfamiliar. He broke off the end and tipped the remainder of the contents out onto his palm, sniffing it. Ordinary wolfsbane. Thank god.

Rummaging in his supplies, he quickly found what he was looking for; pouring a small amount onto a metal disc he pulled out the lighter and flicked on the flame. Glancing around, he saw the boy still watching him.

“Maybe you shouldn't watch this buddy,” he suggested. The boy blinked at him but didn't turn his head. Sighing Stiles lit the pile of ash and tipped it into the open wound. The man jerked awake, eyes flashing red – and wasn't that the icing on the cake. He snarled loudly before passing out again as the lines of black that had reached almost down to his knee begun to recede.

The wound did not close however and the cuts on his side were not healing either. Stiles hastily tapped some gauze over the wounds so they did not bleed out too much. He would come back to them later, now that the worst was taken care of.

The boy was still staring at him when he finished and followed his movements as he went over to the sink in the kitchen to clean the blood off his hands. “You got a name kid?” he asked, tossing aside his bloodstained shirt. The boy continued to watch him for a moment, before hesitantly opening his mouth.

“Asp,” he replied, voice impressively steady considering what he had just witnessed.

“I’m Stiles,” he smiled, coming back over and crouching down in front of him, hand absentmindedly scratching Roscoe behind the ears. “What about these two, they got names?”

“This is Rowan,” Asp responds, fingers entwining in the younger boy’s hair. “He’s scared. And that’s Sorrel. She’s hungry.”

“And what about you buddy? Are you scared or hungry?”

“I’m not scared,” Asp stated, tilting his chin up defiantly. Stiles nodded, admiring the boy’s resilience.

“You stay in front of the fire, okay? Keep warm,” Stiles ordered, picking up baby Sorrel and rocking her gently as he took her to the bathroom. There was an old cabinet in there that he managed to lay a towel on top of to use as a makeshift changing table. He wiped her down carefully with a damp cloth, throwing her soiled diaper in the bin and using some of the linen he kept for bandages to make a temporary new one. Her sobs quietened down considerably once she was not lying in her own mess and he picked up her, cradling the back of her head as he headed back into the main room.

Obviously had he no baby formula lying around the cabin and he was fairly certain babies under the age of one should not have cows milk. Which begged the question, what could babies eat? Stiles scanned the contents of his fridge and pantry and settled on bananas. Babies ate bananas, right? Setting Sorrel down beside the other two once again, checking she was far enough away from the fire, he set about mushing the bananas until they were practically liquefied.

Asp watched as Stiles picked Sorrel back up and sat with her on the chair, mug of mushed banana in one hand. He dipped his finger in and brought it to her mouth, hoping the child was not a fussy eater. Tentatively, she pressed her lips against his finger, tongue poking out to taste. Then she wrapped her mouth around the tip of his finger and sucked, instantly unimpressed when nothing come out.

“Sorry munchkin,” he chuckled, dipping his finger back in the banana paste and holding it out for her again. It was a slow process but he at least managed to get some food into her, even if it was not much. When she started to fuss, he held her against his chest, rocking and rubbing her back soothingly.

Pacing around the small confines of the cabin, Stiles took stock of the situation. The man was still completely unconscious on the pull-out couch, wounds refusing to heal. Stiles knew nothing about him, not even his name. In front of the fireplace, Asp was cuddling a clearly distressed Rowan, fingers carding through his damp blonde hair. The boy looked years older than Stiles suspected he actually was.

A lone man and three children. A lone _injured_ man and three children. A lone injured _werewolf_ and three children. Who just _happened_ to turn up behind Stiles’ cabin. Stiles who just so _happened_ to be the most powerful mage in the state.

Apparently there really was no place you could escape.

Eventually Sorrel drifted off to sleep and he bundled her in a blanket, building a makeshift bed out of couch cushions and blankets on the rug, not wanting to risk her falling off of a bed or couch. Then he returned to the kitchen, making up a quick selection of sandwiches before coming to sit with Asp and Rowan in front of the fireplace.

“You hungry buddy?” Stiles asked, offering the plate of sandwiches to Asp as Rowan still had his head tucked away in Asp’s blankets. The younger boy was still dressed in soaked clothing, Stiles realised with a start. Setting down the plate, from which Asp eagerly helped himself, he reached for Rowan. The boy flinched and started crying when Stiles tried to touch him. Asp glared at him.

“Rowan buddy, you need to get out of those clothes, okay?” he murmured, pulling his hands back helplessly. “Otherwise you’re going to get sick and no one likes being sick.” Rowan did not respond so Stiles threw Asp a pleading glance. With a sigh, the older boy tugged at Rowan’s shirt.

“Come on Ro,” he muttered. “You hate clothes anyway.”

Reluctantly, and with several suspicious glances towards Stiles, Rowan removed his wet clothing with the help of Asp. Asp grabbed one of the many blankets Stiles had lying around the cabin and wrapped Rowan in it, placing the younger boy between his legs and handing him a jam sandwich.

Once the boys had eaten to their hearts content, Stiles led them through to his bedroom. Rowan almost started crying again when he saw the unconscious man, whimpering out a few pitiful ‘ _Papas’_ that had Stiles heart clenching, but the child was too tired to really protest. Asp helped Rowan onto the bed, nose crinkling at the smell of stranger but he too was too exhausted to argue. Roscoe padded into the room behind them, taking his usual spot beside the bed and flopping down.

Within minutes, the boys were asleep and Stiles returned to the living area and slumped in his chair, wondering just what, exactly, he had gotten himself into.


	2. Freedom Comes Cheap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks for the great response to the first chapter! I hope you like this one too, it's a bit longer.

Stiles was woken by the pitiful sounds of a baby crying. Blinking his eyes open against the dappled sunlight coming in through the window, he forced himself back into consciousness. Outside, the storm had ceased and the clouds had parted, however briefly. The clock on the mantle told him it was barely past six in the morning.

Rubbing his neck – stiffened by a night sleeping upright in his chair – he stood up and headed for the makeshift bed in which Sorrel was blubbering.

“Hello little one,” he murmured, picking her up and rocking her gently. Her whimpers ceased as she fisted her hand in his shirt. “That’s a good girl, we don’t want to wake the boys now, do we?”

Her improvised diaper was already sodden so he took her through to the bathroom and wiped her down. Plugging the sink he turned the taps, running them until the basin was filled with lukewarm water. Removing her dirty all-in-one completely, he gently lowered her in the water, startling slightly when she let out an excited squeal. Bathing a baby was never going to be a dry job Stiles figured as she slapped her little hands against the water and sent it flying up his shirt.

Slowly but surely he rubbed the dirt off of her, letting the sink drain and refilling it twice before he was satisfied. Once she was clean he dried her off with the softest towel he could find before making another makeshift diaper out of bandage linen and wrapping her in another clean blanket.

Placing her back on the rug he moved towards the kitchen, moving the kettle back onto the AGA before he set about making another mug of mushed banana. Sorrel gargled behind him, shoving her fists into her mouth every time he glanced over his shoulder at her.

Once the banana was mushed to his satisfaction and he had poured himself a cup of instant coffee, he headed back over to the living area. Placing both mugs down on the table he picked up the baby and bounced her a little before sitting down and grabbing the banana mug. Her cubby fingers gripped the rim of the mug as he carefully spooned out some of the banana. Apparently she was not too familiar with the concept of a spoon however as she smacked it wildly, sending the banana flying onto Stiles’ already filthy shirt.

Chuckling he dipped the spoon back in and demonstrated to Sorrel what she was supposed to do with it, wincing slightly at the slimy texture of the banana. Sorrel watched in interest before reaching out for the spoon and so he tried again, this time with a little more success. By the time she decided she had had enough, his coffee was lukewarm at best. Cradling her to his chest, one hand rubbing her back as she begun to doze, he sipped on his unsatisfactory wake-up drink and tried to ignore the skip of his heart as she grabbed onto one of his fingers comfortingly.

When he was certain she was fully asleep, he returned her to her nest of blankets and cushions and disposed of both mugs in the sink. Heading over to the pull out couch he checked all of the man’s vitals as best he could. He was still unconscious but at least his pulse was steady and his breathing did not seem laboured. Removing the gauze and tape, he checked the wounds. No improvement.

What kind of Alpha did not heal?

Reluctantly, Stiles reopened his medical box, pulled out some thread and needles and set to work stitching the wounds on his side up in the hope it might aide the healing process. He worked steadily for almost an hour, stitching up the claw marks before moving on to the bullet wound and covering them with a poultice and some fresh gauze. When he was done the man was still unconscious. Stiles soaked a towel and wiped the worst of the mud, blood and grime off the man’s body. Carefully manoeuvring the body he replaced the bloody sheet with a fresh one and rearranged him into a more comfortable position before covering him with clean blankets and finding a pillow for his head.

Once he was satisfied, Stiles gathered all the discarded clothing lying around his cabin and stuffed it into the ancient washing machine, stripping himself and adding his clothes as well before throwing in a little more soap than necessary and turning it on. Retreating to the bathroom he took a much-needed shower.

By the time he was washed and dressed in his softest pair of sweats and an old t-shirt, his stomach had started to grumble. Pulling on his coat and boots, Stiles stuck his head in to check on the boys but they were still passed out in his bed with Roscoe lying guard beside them. Bracing himself, he headed out the backdoor and across the few meters to the barn. The chickens clucked in greeting, pecking affectionately at his fingers as he threw them some grain before checking the nests.

“That’s it my lovelies, I hope you're surviving the cold in here, I’ll put some more straw out for you tomorrow I promise,” he muttered, collecting the fresh eggs.

Once back in the kitchen he pulled out the last of the bacon and set two frying pans on the AGA, drizzling a little oil in each of them. The smell of bacon and eggs sizzling was enough to rouse a sleep looking Asp, who tentatively stumbled out from the bedroom.

“Morning buddy,” Stiles greeted him with a wave of the spatula.

“Stop calling me buddy,” Asp responded, climbing up onto one of the kitchen chairs and watching Stiles cook. The kid was shivering slightly, still only clad in his boxers and a blanket. Stiles hurried into his room and quietly searched through his draws so as not to wake Rowan. Returning to the kitchen he handed Asp one of his old jumpers that he rarely wore, so hopefully did not smell too strongly of him.

Asp eyed it suspiciously before sheading the blanket and slipping the jumper on. It fell to below his knees and Stiles resisted the urge to coo. Climbing back into the chair, Asp raised a pointed eyebrow towards the stove.

“Do you want your eggs fried or scrambled?” he asked.

“Whatever is quickest,” was the boy’s response. Stiles chuckled, scrapping a hefty portion of scrambled eggs onto a plate along with some bacon rashes just as the toaster popped. Buttering the toast he added it to the plate and placed it in front of Asp with a knife and fork.

“Orange juice, milk or water?”

“Orange juice please,” Asp answered around a mouthful of eggs and toast. Stiles raised an eyebrow back at him and he shrugged unapologetically. Stiles poured two glasses of orange juice, one for himself, before loading his own plate and sitting across the table from the boy.

They ate in silence; Stiles watching as Asp practically inhaled the food. Once it was gone he shot Stiles a hopeful look and the man got up the grab the frying pan to scoop the rest of the eggs onto the boy’s plate as well as putting a couple more slices of bread in the toaster.

Sorrel decided that was an appropriate time to start gurgling so he quickly picked her up before she got any louder. Sitting back at the kitchen table with Sorrel on his lap, Stiles finished up his own breakfast.

“How old are you?” Stiles started, frown creasing his forehead as he watched Asp spill orange juice down his front.

“Four and three quarters,” came the response.

“And Rowan?”

“He’s two.”

“And Sorrel?”

“She’s just a baby,” Asp shrugged.

“Do you remember when she was born?”

“Uh… near Easter,” he shrugged again, eyeing the toaster seconds before it popped. Stiles stood up and grabbed the toast as well as the butter dish and jam, laying them all on the table for Asp to help himself.

“Are you all siblings?” he asked, now on a quest to find out as much as possible about his unexpected guests. Asp nodded, stuffing his mouth full of toast. “And that man? Is he your dad?” he pointed towards the man on the pull-out.

“That's Papa,” Asp frowned, lowering his toast and suddenly looking worried. “Is he sleeping?”

“Yeah buddy, he’s just sleeping, he got hurt and sleep will help him fix himself,” Stiles tried to explain, suddenly terrified by the prospect of the man never waking up and abandoning him with three small children he knew nothing about. “How come you ended up here?” Asp bristled. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don't want to,” Stiles reassured. The boy took that as permission to stuff his mouth with so much toast Stiles was afraid he would choke.

Almost an hour later, Asp was still sitting at the kitchen table with some sheets of paper and pencils that Stiles had managed to find, doodling contentedly. Stiles had washed and dried the sling that the man had been carrying Sorrel in and now had her strapped to his front as he sat across from Asp and made a grocery list.

The creaking of the bedroom door caught his attention and he turned to see Rowan, one hand rubbing sleep from his eyes and the other fisted in Roscoe’s fur as the two of them ambled into the living room.

“Hey there little man,” Stiles greeted softly and Rowan instantly froze up. “It’s okay, I’m going to make you some food,” he soothed, making no motion to approach the toddler.

“Hey Ro,” Asp smiled, hopping down from his seat and grabbing his brother’s hand. He led him to the kitchen table and helped him climb into the chair next to him before returning to his own chair.

Stiles disappeared into the backroom and retrieved Rowan’s now dry t-shirt and trousers from the drier, placing them on the table in front of him. The younger boy flicked his eyes between the clothes and his older brother. At Asp’s nod, he quickly grabbed the t-shirt and struggled to pull it on. The trousers he left untouched.

“Do you like fried eggs or scrambled?” Stiles queried, hoping to get something vocal out of the boy. Rowan just frowned and looked at Asp.

“He likes fried eggs but not too runny,” Asp answered for his brother, not even looking up from his drawing. Stiles sighed and nodded, adding more bacon to one pan and cracking a couple of eggs into the other.

Rowan took far more time over his food than Asp had, carefully placing the fried egg on top of his toast and biting the crust off first. He nibbled at his bacon, pulling the stringy rind off and making a small pile of it on the edge of his plate, eyes shooting to Roscoe each time he did so. His chubby hands were so gentle, each movement thought through. Stiles’ heart melted.

“So I’m going to make a phone call before the line gets cut by another storm, okay? You two just stay in here and draw me something pretty,” he teased, absentmindedly ruffling Asp’s hair as he stood up, Sorrel still cradled against his front. Asp tensed for a moment before relaxing and continuing with his drawing. Rowan just glared at him. “You can feed the bits of your bacon to Roscoe if you want but not from the table,” Stiles added and the boy’s glare softened, if only by a fraction.

As there was no cell service this far out into the woods, Stiles was reliant upon the landline – a rather temperamental thing at best. Any bad weather would either cut the line completely or render it so crackled that it was impossible to hear what the other person was saying. Nonetheless, it was Stiles’ only form or communication with the outside world from the cabin. He should probably invest in a satellite phone. But that would defy the point of living in the middle of nowhere.

“Stiles man, what’s up?” Jordan’s voice greeted him with only a mild crackle as he took sank into the window-seat.

“Hey Parrish,” Stiles responded. “So you remember that massive favour you owe me? I’m calling that in.”

“Oh god, what happened? Did a tree finally fall and squish your little hut?”

“Fuck you it is not a hut,” Stiles huffed. “But no, my _cabin_ is perfectly in tact thank you very much.”

“Okay, okay, what do you need from me?”

“I have a grocery list-”

“Seriously Stiles? You are wasting your favour because you can’t be bothered to clear your drive?”

“First of all, my drive is fucking miles long dude so don't even start. And secondly it’s a little more than that. It’s kind of a weird list and I’m going to need you to not ask any questions.”

“That sounds ominous – I’m not buying you sex toys Stilinski, I have a line.”

“Shut up, do you have a pen and paper?” Stiles asked, unfolding the list he had written up earlier. Jordan hummed the affirmative and Stiles could hear the faint sound of a pen clicking. “Okay first of all, I’m going to need you to go to Greenville to pick this stuff up okay? And second of all, you can tell no one about this. I mean no one – especially not my dad.”

“This sounds more and more suspicious,” Jordan groaned. “Why do I need to go all the way to Greenville? That’s like a two hour drive, man.”

“Just do it, Greenville’s a big town and no one will notice you,” Stiles sighed, running a hand over Sorrel’s head. “Promise me you won’t breath a word of this to anyone?”

“So long as you aren’t doing something stupid,” Jordan muttered.

“ _Jordan_ ,” Stiles practically growled.

“Yeah, yeah, I promise, now spill – what do you need?”

“A months worth of canned soup, beans and dried fruit,” Stiles begun.

“We already prepped your house for a snow-in,” Jordan argued.

“Yeah, well I’m going to need to at least double my supplies. And I said no questions. I’m also going to need formula for a six to seven month old baby along with some bottles, different kinds of baby food for a kid the same age, enough diapers to last a snow-in for a six month old and a two year old,” he sucked in a breath. “You’ll need to pop into a clothing store of some kind and get three shirts and three pairs of pants for a five year old and two year old, as well as some kids underwear and several all-in-ones for a six month old, are you with me?”

The other side of the line was horribly quiet for a moment. “Stiles… what the _fuck_?” Jordan whispered.

“I said no questions.”

“Do you have _children_ staying with you? Oh my god, did you fuck around with magic and somehow summon _children_! Stiles you are going to be in so much shit, what the fuck?”

“No questions Parrish. And no I did not just summon children out of the goddamn blue,” he snapped. “Now did you write it all down because I’m not done yet?”

“Wait, let me organise this – okay I have a column for a six month old, a two year old and a five year old as well as a general list,” Jordan muttered. And this was why Stiles called him. He was nothing if not efficient. “Clothes for them all, diapers for two, food for the baby,” he listed off.

“I’m also going to need colouring books and story books and whatever else you can think of to entertain a child,” he can hear Jordan muttering under his breath as he repeated what Stiles had said. “And can you get me some more linen for bandages and some gauze? Oh and a pack of boxers? I’m running short,” he lied, for some reason not wanting to disclose the fact he also had another adult in his cabin as well as three children. “And a travel cot or something for a baby to sleep in? And two air-mattresses.”

“You know you are going to have to explain this to me sometime right? I mean I get it if you want to be all secretive now but if you have adopted three children behind my back – behind your _dad’s_ back – you are going to be so dead.”

“I haven’t just adopted three kids Jordan, I’m not that irresponsible. Just get the stuff okay and maybe throw in a couple of soft toys or something as well? Do you think you’ll be able to get it today?”

“You’re in luck because I had the night shift so I’m off for the day but I really hate you for making me drive all the way to Greenville for this shit, you can get it all in town, or even in Red Hill – Greenville is so far away.”

“Greenville is a city where no one is going to blink twice in your direction,” Stiles hissed. “People in town would definitely start asking questions and most people in Red Hill know you as well.”

“Okay, okay, Mr. Top Secret,” Jordan groaned. “I’ll hopefully be back in like five hours but I’ll call you when I’m heading over to your place – I’m not coming up your drive though, that’s your problem,” he stated with finality before saying goodbye and hanging up.

-|-

Over the next few hours, Stiles managed to persuade the boys to take a bath and wash the grime off themselves. It had been a messy affair but he had succeeded in getting the faintest hint of a smile out of Rowan so he could not be too mad. He had had to draw a line however, when Rowan had attempted to get Roscoe into the tub with them.

Rowan had refused to let Stiles give him a makeshift diaper so was currently commando in his trousers. Stiles could only hope he was even vaguely potty trained. But once they had been dried and dressed again, smelling of Stiles’ shampoo and some florally bath soap Erica had given him years ago, he had made up a quick lunch of sandwiches, using the last of bread and making a mental note to make some more.

Then things had started to head downhill. Rowan had climbed onto the bed and attempted to wake up his father. When he was unsuccessful he started to panic, huge tears rolling down his rosy cheeks and Stiles wanted to cry with him. He had screamed in protest when Stiles had tried to comfort him and Asp had yelled at Stiles for scaring him, which had caused Sorrel to start crying too.

Eventually he had managed to settle the baby and Asp had calmed Rowan enough that he could listen to Stiles explain that their dad was not very well and needed to sleep to heal himself. He could only hope it was the truth. Rowan had not seemed convinced but Stiles had suggested maybe cuddles would help and so Rowan had quickly snuggled underneath the blanket and plastered himself to his dad’s uninjured side. Asp had taken the other side, staying above the covers and not too close so as to avoid the wound.

When Jordan finally called to say he would be at the end of Stiles’ drive in ten minutes, Stiles lay a sleeping Sorrel on the man’s chest and told Asp to make sure she didn't touch the gauze or roll off. He absentmindedly found himself running a hand over both Sorrel and Asp’s heads before tugging on his coat and boots and heading out. For once, Roscoe did not follow him, instead remained lying at the foot of the pull-out couch.

“What the hell is that?” Jordan asked without so much as a greeting as Stiles pulled up at the end of his drive.

“A snowmobile Parrish, I’m sure you’ve seen one before,” Stiles snarked.

“Yeah but since when do you have one?”

“Since I moved out here – you didn't honestly think I would ever contemplate actually _cleaning_ this drive, did you?” Stiles snorted. “That would take days and by the time I’d reached the end I would have had to start all over again.”

“Does your father know you have that?” Jordan asked sceptically, still eyeing the contraption.

“Obviously, he bought it for me,” Stiles laughed. “Now did you get everything on the list?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jordan huffed. “I have so many questions though and it is literally killing me not to ask.”

“Yeah well, you owe me,” he retorted. “At least this isn’t going to end up on your criminal record.”

“For the thousandth time, I am _sorry_ , I didn't think it would get so out of hand,” Jordan groaned, making the younger man snigger. “How are you go to get all this stuff back up to your place anyhow?” he asked and Stiles merely gestured to the strange toboggan type thing attached to the back of the snowmobile. “That looks safe,” Jordan deadpanned.

“It’s not like I’m going to go very fast is it? Now load up buddy, I’m still milking in my favour,” he grinned, leaning back in his seat but making no move to get off. Jordan glared at him but began unloading the contents of his trunk out onto the trailer. He did owe Stiles after all.

“Alright, that’s it,” he sighed once everything was loaded and Stiles had handed him some rope to tie it down with. “This is the weirdest thing you’ve ever got be involved in and that’s saying something Stilinski. I expect answered some day – and someday soon.”

“Whatever, just don’t breath a word of this to my dad, he has enough to worry about.”

“You are alright though? You’re not in trouble or anything?” Jordan frowned.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Stiles promised. “But I should probably be getting back, I’ll call you if I need anything else but thanks for this.”

“Yeah, yeah, see you Stilinski,” Jordan muttered, climbing back into his truck and waving as Stiles took off back down his drive.

When he got back to the cabin, both Rowan and Sorrel were fast asleep. Asp watched him curiously from the pull-out as Stiles lugged everything inside. The pile was much larger than he anticipated and his back gave a twinge of protest. He quickly dumped all the foodstuffs on the kitchen table and put the diapers in the bathroom, pushing the air mattresses aside to deal with later. Asp came over and picked up the selection of books Jordan had bought before his eyes landed on the colouring pencils and crayons.

“Can I…?” he asked hesitantly.

“Go for it buddy, it’s all yours,” Stiles smiled, watching the boy’s face light up as he grabbed the pencils and started flicking through a colouring book.

Stiles carefully put away the extra medical stuff Jordan had got, grateful he had added some tape as well even though Stiles had forgotten to ask for it. Then he set up the travel cot and filled it with blankets and a couple of soft toys, snorting at the fluffy little wolf Jordan had managed to find.

“What’s that?” a sleep voice asked and he blinked, looking up to see Rowan watching him.

“It’s a little wolfie, do you want him?” Stiles smiled, holding the toy out to the toddler. Rowan looked hesitant but eventually his desire to see the toy got the better of him and he slid off the pull-out and waddled over, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Can I keep her?” Rowan murmured, stroking the soft fur reverently. Stiles nodded just as Sorrel started to fuss. “Does she have a name?”

“Nah buddy, you can pick one for her,” he prompted, going over to pick the baby off the man’s chest and bounce her a little as he rummaged through the groceries for the box of formula. Thanking the stars that he had spent years babysitting as a teenager – children loved him for some reason – he quickly fixed up a bottle and sighed in relief when she instantly latched onto it. “You think of a name yet?” he asked Rowan.

“I’m thinking,” he frowned, sticking a thumb in his mouth and climbing one handed onto the sofa. Stiles sunk into his usual chair beside the sofa with Sorrel. Asp was at the coffee table in front of them and Stiles was suddenly hit by how _domestic_ it all was. Aside from the unconscious man a few meters away.

Stiles watched as Asp pondered which colour to fill in the tiger’s eyes; as Rowan muttered under his breath to his new toy and Roscoe lay at his feet; as Sorrel sucked on her bottle, blue eyes gazing up at him. His heart stuttered and once again, he was reminded of how dangerous it was to become too attached too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me grin like an idiot.


	3. Love's On The Menu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know it's been a while.

Once Sorrel had gone down for another nap, Stiles left the boys to entertain themselves as he headed up to the attic. There was barely anything stored up there, all of the boxes of mementoes that he and his father had brought with them from Beacon Hills were at his father’s house in town so all Stiles had were a few boxes of old school work or things he simply never bothered to unpack as well as his mum’s favourite couch that was covered in stains but that he could not quite bring himself to throw away. The attic was spacious though, tall enough to stand in unless you went right to the sides and a large skylight let in the sunlight when it was not snowing.

The stairs were a bit rickety and getting the vacuum up there was certainly a task but he managed it with only a few bruises. Shoving the few boxes there were to one corner, Stiles set about cleaning the space up. Before dragging the air mattresses up he grabbed his toolbox and set about making the wooden drop-down stairs safer. They came down a little awkwardly in front of the backroom door but it was not impossible to get around.

Once the air mattresses were up he asked Asp if he wanted to help. The four year old nodded eagerly, curious about what Stiles was doing. Following Asp up the steps he then showed him the foot pump, watching as he happily jumped up onto it and giggled as it deflated, pushing air into the mattress. Asp quickly roped him into a competition of who could inflate the mattress faster and Stiles chuckled, slowly pumping his own foot as Asp jumped repeatedly on his pump.

In the end it probably would have been quicker for Stiles to inflate them both himself but just watching Asp’s little giggles each time the pump let out a strange noise was completely worth it. Stiles let Asp win before helping him back down the stairs and fixing him and Rowan a snack. As the two boys chewed happily at the assortment of dried fruit, Stiles took some sheets and blankets from the linen cupboard – which his father had thankfully forced him to stock – and returned to the attic. Quickly pumping up the last bit of Asp’s mattress he covered them both in sheets, tucking the blankets in neatly around the edges. He added an assortment of cushions to each bed, as he did not have any spare pillows.

He stacked the rest of the soft toys that he had not put in Sorrel’s cot on his mum’s couch and piled the books and colouring equipment beside it. By the time he was finished, Sorrel was demanding another bottle. Rowan had returned to cuddle his dad on the pull-out and Asp had moved on to another drawing.

The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion, Stiles drawing Asp into fragmented conversation every now and then, attempting in vain to engage Rowan as well. He checked the man’s wounds twice, refreshing the poultice and the gauze whilst Rowan was napping. He had unsuccessfully tried to get the man’s name from Asp but Asp had simply frowned and said: “he’s called papa.”

By five o’clock Stiles had moved to the kitchen to start dinner, cooking up a simple cheesy pasta. Rowan was the first to climb onto a kitchen chair, watching Stiles in silence as Stiles chatted away to him, telling him what he was doing. The toy wolf – which after much consideration Rowan had declared was called ‘Wolf’ – was tucked under his arm as he sucked on his thumb.

“Asp, come and wash your hands for dinner,” Stiles called out, beckoning Rowan over as well. He served the pasta and let it cool as he squirted soap on both boys’ hands, making sure not to actually touch Rowan, who was still apprehensive about Stiles being too close. Dinner was a relatively quiet affair and afterwards Stiles let Rowan give Roscoe his bowl of food, to the toddler’s delight.

Pulling out the toothbrushes Jordan had had the foresight to buy as well, Stiles asked which colour they preferred. Asp made Rowan choose first and the little boy shyly pointed to the purple one, leaving Asp with the green. When their teeth were clean and he had made sure they had both peed he gently coaxed Rowan into a new diaper before helping them up the drop-down stairs, which he had cast several safety charms on.

Asp headed straight for the bed he had helped to pump up and Rowan toddled over to the couch to look at the toys. He grabbed a big stuffed dog and then pulled at the books. After inspecting all the covers, he hesitantly held one out to Stiles.

“Come and read it on my bed,” Asp ordered, shuffling over so that Rowan could scramble under the blankets with him. Stiles sat tentatively on the edge of the bed and when Rowan did not glare at him he opened the book and begun to read. By the time he was half way through, Rowan had already drifted off to sleep. He finished it for Asp and then asked if he wanted him to move Rowan to the other bed.

“No, it’s okay, he can sleep in my bed,” Asp smiled, wiggling down next to his brother. “Thank you for the story Mr. Stiles,” he added with a yawn.

“Just Stiles is fine, goodnight Asp, goodnight Rowan,” Stiles smiled, ruffling Asp’s brown curls affectionately.

He left the stairs down, having given the boys strict instructions to shout if they needed to come down, rather than attempt it on their own.

Checking the man’s wounds once more, he contemplated ringing Aurelia but the storm was picking back up and the line would probably be awfully crackled if it worked at all. Besides, he doubted she would be of any help over the phone and there was no way she could get to the cabin in these conditions.

“What’s the matter with your papa?” Stiles muttered, picking up Sorrel and rocking her slightly. “He better wake up soon or he’s going to starve to death – and I know you wolves can survive longer than us puny humans with no food or water but I would rather not test just how _much_ longer.”

Sorrel gurgled in response.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fully aware that you are a tiny baby that has no higher cognitive functioning but if I want to talk to you then I damn well will,” he continued to mutter. “Ugh, what if he doesn't wake up? Then what am I supposed to do? I don’t even know what you are running from!”

Another gurgle, this one with spit bubbles.

“Aren’t you a charmer,” he chuckled. Falling back onto the couch, Stiles cuddled Sorrel for a while, watching her father’s chest rising and falling with shallow breathes.

-|-

Sunlight filtered in through the window, the rays dancing across Stiles’ face and beckoning him back into wakefulness. The snowfall had lulled the world into that quiet hush that hung heavy in the air. Rolling out of bed, Stiles quickly dressed himself, eyes still half closed as he stumbled about his bedroom. Sorrel was asleep in her travel cot, which Stiles had hauled into his room late last night, not liking the idea of leaving Sorrel alone with only her unresponsive father for company. Shutting the door of his bedroom quietly behind him, Stiles made to head up the stairs to check on the boys only to see Rowan perched at the top watching him.

“Good morning,” he smiled softly. “Do you want to come down?” he asked and the boy nodded shyly. After helping Rowan down the stairs, Stiles took him into the bathroom and persuaded him to change his diaper and put on some clean clothes before they both quickly brushed their teeth.

“Do you want to help me with the chickens?” Stiles queried, heading into the backroom to put on his coat and boots. Rowan’s face lit up, the biggest response Stiles had managed to get out of him yet, and he quickly nodded his head. Stiles helped him into the coat and boots he had arrived in plus a scarf and mittens Parrish had bought.

Outside, the snow was piling up against the side of the house and Stiles was grateful for the warming charms he had placed on the shed where the chickens lived. Rowan was enthralled by the birds; eyes bright with wonder as he held out a handful of grain. To Stiles’ surprise one of the hens actually approached him and gently pecked some of the grains from his hand; Rowan didn't so much as twitch his eyebrow for fear of scaring the bird away.

Keeping an eye on the boy, Stiles set about collecting the fresh eggs and feeding the hens, putting down clean straw and just generally tidying the place up. He let Rowan feed the birds and watched as they clucked happily around him. Eventually, with a little persuasion, they headed back inside just as Sorrel started to grumble.

The day passed much the same as the one before. Stiles trying to keep the children happy and calm whilst worrying about their unconscious father and trying to extract any information he could out of Asp. Rowan was still uneasy, spending most of the day tucked up on the pull-out couch with his father and Wolf and shooting Stiles glares when he came too close. Asp was much more relaxed, absorbed in drawing and even getting Stiles to help him read. It was strangely peaceful. Unnervingly so. After all, there had to be some reason the man had turned up at Stiles’ cabin, some reason he had claw marks _and_ wolfsbane bullet wounds. And what if that something caught up with them?

In the afternoon, Stiles could tell Asp was getting somewhat twitchy. Stiles had been a restless child, thanks to his undiagnosed ADHD. But the one thing that had always hooked his attention was baking. So after putting Sorrell down after her afternoon bottle, Stiles rummaged around in his cupboards to see what he had.

“What are you doing?” Asp asked, startling Stiles with his sudden proximity and causing him to dump his head against the shelf above him. Finally locating the chocolate chips he withdrew from the cupboard and smiled down at the kid.

“Making cookies,” he grinned, rubbing his head where he had bruised it. “Want to help?”

“You’re hurt,” Asp frowned. “I can help,” he declared and without hesitating climbed up onto the nearest chair so he could reach Stiles head. Before stiles could begin to process what was happening, there were black lines crawling up the four-year-old’s arm.

“Whoa buddy,” Stiles stepped out of his reach, one hand coming up to steady him on the chair. “You don’t have to do that, it’s just a bump,” he assured him, startled by the fact such a young kid even knew _how_ to do that. Let alone _why_. A slither of dread crept down his spine and his stomach rolled a little as possibilities flooded his overactive brain. Pushing it aside, he ruffled Asp’s hair, the boy just looked confused. “Cookies?”

“I’ve never made cookies before.”

“I can teach you.”

“Will I be allowed to eat them?”

“Of course! Not all in one go though!”

“Alright…” he muttered, still looking hesitant. Stiles pulled out his old worn apron and offered it out to Asp. “I’m not wearing that,” he pouted. With a laugh Stiles slung it over his head and hoisted it up around the waist before tying it securely. Asp was not impressed.

“You looked dashing,” Stiles teased before he started to point to various ingredients and get Asp to measure out the correct amount. He knew the recipe by heart, having made it many times with his mother as a child. Now he only makes it on her birthday or, it would seem, in emergencies.

“You’re sad,” Asp stated suddenly, frowning up at him, flour already dusting his nose.

“I used to make these cookies with my mum,” he explained, figuring honesty was probably his best course of action with a young werewolf who still didn't seem to understand boundaries. Besides, it was good to talk about his mum. Even if it did still hurt.

“Why does that make you sad?”

“Because she died.”

“I wish my mum was dead.”

The statement was said with just brazen honesty and sincerity Stiles almost didn't register the words at first. Then the dread that had been creeping down his spine earlier came crashing back, gripping his hammering heart in its icy clutches.

“What.”

“Is my dad going to die?”

“What? No. No, your dad’s not going to die,” Stiles practically squealed, hoping the kid couldn't detect the faint trace of doubt in his heartbeat. Asp didn't look convinced.

“I don't want my dad to die.”

“And he’s not going to,” Stiles promised, words steadier as he resolved to do whatever was within his power to ensure these children didn't suffer any more than he suspected they already had.

“Maybe the smell of cookies will wake him up,” Asp suggested, turning back to the measuring scales. Stiles could do nothing but rest his hand on the boy’s head as he helped him pour the chocolate chips.

-|-

“Ugh, I don't want to stir anymore,” Asp groaned, dropping the wooden spoon and slumping on the chair just as Sorrell started to cry. Rolling his eyes, Stiles flicked a hand towards the mixing bowl before heading towards the pitiful cries. When he came back, a blubbering infant in his arms, Asp was staring at the bowl in wonder as the spoon twirled around, combining all the ingredients. With no hand touching it.

“Cool, huh,” Stiles snorted.

“Uh huh,” Asp nodded, not taking his eyes off the enchanted spoon. A moment later he snapped to his senses, spinning around in the chair and glaring at Stiles – and who knew a four-year-old was capable of such a glare. “Hey! Why were you making me stir it if you could do that?” he accused.

Stiles laughed. “Because it builds character.”

“I have plenty of character,” he huffed. Stiles laughed even harder at the pout that followed and it wasn't long before Asp was fighting back a smirk too. “When can we eat the cookies?”

“We haven’t even put them in the oven yet!”

“Can’t you just magic them ready?”

“That is not how it works,” Stiles chuckled, although he probably _could_.

“Ugh, that so not cool.”

-|-

By the time the cookies were finally ready, Asp was practically salivating, standing in front of the AGA – not close enough that Stiles would tell him to step away but close enough to get the strongest smell. He had been trying to convince Stiles they had smelled ready after five minutes of them being in there.

The smell had lured Rowan from his dad’s side and he had climbed onto one of the chairs with Asp’s help and was watching his brother with big wide eyes.

“Alright, alright, everyone stand back,” Stiles ordered, clapping his oven gloves together. Asp scuttled backwards excitedly, barely containing himself as Stiles extracted the cookies from the oven. “You can’t eat them yet, they have to cool down.” Asp looked horribly offended so Stiles flicked his wrist and the cookies went soaring into the air before coming back down to sit on the cooling racks.

“Awesome,” Asp whispered.

He proceeded to sit and watch the cookies cool down for the next ten minutes.

“Alright, you can have one each now and another one after dinner,” Stiles chuckled at the glare Asp sent his way as he deposited one cookie in front of both him and Rowan. “Don’t stuff your face.”

Needless to say, Asp ignored him.

Rowan on the other hand, pulled his cookie apart meticulously, only putting tiny pieces in his mouth and savouring them with a contemplative expression on his tiny little face. Stiles thought his heart might burst from his chest at the adorableness.

-|-

Once all the children were in bed and asleep, Stiles set about renewing their father’s bandages. The alpha still wasn't healing

_I don't want my dad to die_.

Asp’s words had been echoing in Stiles’ head ever since he had said them. This man couldn't die. He simply could not. Stiles would not allow it.

Anger was bubbling up inside of him, stark and brutal in comparison to the warmth and softness he felt around the children. They did not deserve this, they deserved a conscious father who could love them and protect them from whatever it was they were running from. Not Stiles, who could barely care for himself.

“You gotta wake up dude,” Stiles growled. And perhaps he had spent too much time around wolves. “I’m serious, you’ve gotta wake up for your kids, they need you, you can’t do this too them,” he muttered, working himself up and shaking the unconscious man a little. Because this was not fair and _yes_ , Stiles knew life wasn’t fair but he was damn well going to do his best to make it as fair for these kids as he damn well could.

“Please don't kill me for this,” he snorted right before lifting his hand up and bringing his palm down across the man’s cheek.

Alpha eyes flashed open and Stiles’ wrist was caught in a vicelike grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The baking was totally inspired by a comment, so thanks for that!


	4. String of False Starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the comments you guys leave are just the best, thank you to everyone who has left a comment or kudos!

“Oh thank fuck,” Stiles practically sobbed.

“Who are you,” the alpha glared. So that must be where Asp got it from.

“Who am I! Who am _I_? My dude, the question is who the fuck are you! _I_ am the guy who has been looking after your little minions whilst _you_ have been lying unconscious for the past few days!” Stiles whisper-yelled.

“Did you just call my children minions.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned. “Of course that’s the bit you pick out.”

Then things started to sink in for the alpha in front of him and the man tried to climb out of the bed, sheets twisting around his legs. “Whoa, steady on their dude, you have like three huge gashes on your side and a bullet wound in your thigh you might want to take it easy.”

“Where are my kids,” the man growled, eyes flashing red and fangs dropping.

“Relax,” Stiles ordered. “They’re asleep. I can bring them here if you want but you need to calm down. Control yourself dude.”

“Don’t call me dude. Where the fuck are my kids.”

“Sorrel is in the next room,” Stiles pointed in her direction so the man could catch her heartbeat. “And the boys are upstairs. Don’t worry there are safety charms on the stairs so they aren’t going to fall.”

“Why aren’t I healing,” the man asked – or, well _asked_ was not quite the right term – as he sat back down on the bed, hand going to the wound on his side.

“That is a very good question and one I was hoping you had the answer to,” Stiles sighed. “I’ve stitched them up and they’re clean so they shouldn't get infected or anything but it looks like you might just have to heal the human way,” he shrugged.

“I don't have time for this. I need to leave.”

“No. Nuh uh. You are not going anyway my friend,” Stiles reached out to put a hand on the man’s shoulder as he tried to rise again. He received a pointedly raised eyebrow in return and quickly withdrew his hand. “Look, you’re injured and you have three kids under the age of five, there is a blizzard outside, we’re snowed in – there is absolutely no chance of you going anywhere anytime soon unless you want to all end up dead.”

“Well I can’t stay here,” he growled.

“Do you even know where _here_ _is_? You literally showed up out of the fucking blue in a snowstorm, injured, with three little kids strapped to you! At the very least you owe me an explanation about why you have injures from both a werewolf _and_ a hunter! And yeah, I already know about werewolves, you got really lucky on that one because believe me if I didn't already know the red eyes and growling and all that would probably have meant I would have killed you myself!”

“Are you finished.”

“No. I’m just taking a breathing break.”

“How do you know about werewolves.”

“Why did you end up outside my house in a blizzard?”

“I asked first.”

“Are you serious?”

“I think I’m going to pass out.”

“ _What!_ No! Not again! Oh my god you probably need food. And water. Holy shit please stay conscious I will be right back,” Stiles stumbled over himself to get to the kitchen, quickly pulling some leftover soup out the fridge and tipping it into a pan on the AGA. Whilst it heated up he poured the man a glass of water and returned to the pull-out. Relief washed over him when he saw the man was still awake, leaning back against the wall and looking rather gaunt.

He thrust the water in his general direction.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked and it was the first time anything he had said actually sounded remotely like a question.

“Because your kids need you.”

As Stiles handed over the bowl of soup the man suddenly perked up, just moments before Stiles could hear Sorrel huffing from his bedroom. “Eat. I’ll get her,” he ordered, shoving the bowl into the man’s hands. He disappeared before the man could protest.

Sorrel was lying on her back in the travel got, spit foaming around her mouth as she blinked up at him before fussing again. Picking her up he rocked her back and forth a little, murmuring to her to stave off the cries. Going back into the main room, Stiles was half surprised the man had not tried to get out of bed but not at all surprised to see he hadn’t touched his soup yet.

“Eat. You need your strength,” Stiles sighed, coming over to sit beside him so that he could see the baby.

“I need to-”

“Yeah, I know, just put the soup down next to you and don't make any sudden movements.” The man did as instructed and Stiles handed Sorrel over, heart clenching at the smile she bestowed on her father. He pointedly ignored the wetness in the man’s eyes, instead picking up the bowl of soup and summoning the small coffee table hiding behind his armchair to put the bowl on. The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Mage,” he shrugged, suddenly tired.

Eyes flashed red again and the man begun to growl, trying his best to move away from Stiles with Sorrel still tucked to his chest, movement inhibited by the wounds on his side. Sorrel started to cry at her father’s sudden shift in mood.

“Whoa,” Stiles backed away from the bed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Why should I trust you,” he growled.

“You can hear my heartbeat. That wasn't a lie.”

“Mages can lie. They can disguise their heartbeat.”

“What the hell? I don't know how to do that dude; honestly I mainly just use it for when I’m feeling too lazy to do chores. And occasionally to help settle disputes,” he rambled. Sorrel’s cries were getting louder. “You need to calm the fuck down, you’re scaring your daughter.”

The man glanced back down at Sorrel and instantly stopped growling, eyes returning to their natural – if exceedingly beautiful – shade of hazel. Stiles made no attempt to get any closer.

“You still need to eat. And I need to change the dressing on your wounds.”

“Who’s to say you aren’t the one keeping me from healing.”

“What possible benefit could I have from that?”

“Keeps me incapacitated.”

“Just eat the fucking soup.”

Stiles watched as the man glanced sideways at the still steaming bowl and he could hear his stomach rumble from across the room. Then the man looked back down at Sorrel, who had stopped crying and was now just sucking her thumb.

“I can hold her, I won’t go anywhere.”

“No.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Stiles huffed, storming back over to the pull-out and sitting down next to the werewolf. “Give her to me or I will spoon feed you, and don't for a second think I won’t.”

“I’ll rip your throat out.”

“I’m sure you will but first you are going to have to eat.”

The werewolf stared him down but Stiles stared back, unflinching. Which probably said something about his preservation instincts – or rather, lack there of. Eventually though the werewolf relented, slowly, cautiously, looking like he was removing one of his own limbs as he handed Sorrel back to Stiles. Stiles sat crossed legged beside the man, placing Sorrel in his lap so her feet touched the man’s torso where the sheet had slipped down.

“Now eat,” he encouraged, voice softer, and the werewolf obeyed.

And so the three of them sat there, the only sounds that of Sorrel’s occasional gurgle and the wind raging outside. The werewolf barely took his eyes off his daughter, all senses alert, ready to snatch her back should Stiles look like he was even about to shift his position. Stiles stayed completely still, save for the hands that curled around Sorrel. A feat for him.

Once the soup was gone, the man wasted no time in putting the bowl down and scooping Sorrel back up, cradling her against his chest.

“I need to change your bandages,” Stiles hedged. “If you lie on your side with her against your front I should be able to reach everything.” The wolf looked suspicious but too tired to argue, shifting down on the pull-out and rolling onto his side.

Wasting no time, Stiles pulled out the first-aid kit and quickly set about cleaning and redressing the wounds. They had stopped bleeding, which could only be a good sign. The werewolf remained stock still with Stiles’ hands on him and Stiles admire the man’s control – cleaning wounds wasn't painless.

“You need to sleep, I can bring her cot in here and put it right next to you,” he suggested. The man looked uncertain, clearly not wanting to let go of his daughter but also worried he would crush her in his sleep. Stiles rolled his eyes and went to retrieve the cot.

“Let me,” Stiles insisted when the man tried to put her in the cot himself, bending at angles that could not be comfortable considering the gauges on his side. With a pained expression, he handed Sorrel back over and Stiles placed her back into the nest of blankets and stuffed toys. “I’ll be right next door, if you need anything just call.”

He got a grunt in response as the man settled back onto the pull-out, eyes fixed on Sorrel through the gauze on the side of the cot.

“I don’t even know your name. I’m Stiles, by the way.”

“Derek,” was the soft response before the wolf succumbed to sleep.

-|-

Stiles woke to the sound of growling and a child yelling. Dashing from his room, he saw the werewolf – _Derek_ – standing at the bottom of the ladder leading to the attic, eyes flashing and clutching at the bandages at his side, and the two boys standing at the top, unable to get down but crying out for their father.

“Oh my god you’ve probably ripped your stitches,” was the first thing out of Stiles’ mouth. Sorrel was crying in the background. Roscoe was barking up the ladder.

The next thing he knew was he was being shoved up against the wall by a very angry werewolf, fangs inches away from his face.

“What have you done?” he growled.

“Protective charms dude, I told you. I didn't want them to fall down. And I didn't want strangers climbing up either – who knows what you’re running from. Just back up and I’ll help them down,” Stiles snapped, shoving uselessly at the wolf.

After a moment, Derek stepped back, eyes still fixed on Stiles in a glare. Stiles rolled his eyes as he ducked away from him and headed towards the ladder.

“Morning boys, I told you your papa would wake up,” he greeted them, climbing up to help them down. Rowan was sobbing hysterically, slobber soaked hands clutching Stiles’ unconsciously as Stiles lifted him down the ladder and into Derek’s waiting arms. Stiles was definitely going to have to re-do those stitches. Asp was calmer but his eyes never left his father.

Somehow Derek managed to pick up both boys despite the wounds that still hadn’t healed, judging by the trickle of blood down his side. Stiles scratched behind Roscoe’s ears as he watched them. Then Derek stumbled and Stiles’ hand was shooting out to steady him, plucking Asp from his arms and setting him back down on the ground.

“Just get back on the pull-out,” he ordered, supporting his weight and practically dragging him back to the couch. Rowan had his face buried in his father’s neck and was refusing to let go.

“Is he alright?” Asp asked hesitantly.

“He’ll be fine, he’s just not supposed to stand up, or _pick anything up_ ,” Stiles sighed. “Just lie down on your side again and let me look at the damage you’ve done to my handiwork.”

To his surprise, Derek complied without protest, still clutching Rowan to his chest and his arm reaching out to pull Asp onto the bed as well. Stiles took a moment to reach down and pick up Sorrel, bouncing her easily until her crying stopped.

“I’ll feed you in a moment little one, just let me fixed your papa, okay?” he muttered as he lowered her back into the cot.

“Can I help?” Asp asked, watching intently as Stiles pealed back the bandages. There was no stopping the boy’s curiosity. Stiles set the bloodied bandages to the side, nodding as he headed into the kitchen area and brought back a bowl of water.

“Hold this for me,” he instructed, dipping a cloth into the water as Asp gripped the sides in concentration. Cleaning the fresh blood of the wounds exposed the damage – which was honestly not as bad as Stiles had been anticipating. Just a few stitches were needed and less than fifteen minutes later he was finished.

Disposing of all the bloodied bandages and cloths, Stiles washed his hands and applied fresh bandages before getting Sorrel’s bottle ready.

“Your papa needs to sleep, okay,” Stiles told Asp as Rowan’s face was still buried out of sight. “You can stay here with him but don't touch the bandages alright.” The kid nodded.

Stiles was finally able to gather his thoughts and came to the conclusion that that was a rather sudden wake up call. Which he would very much like to never repeat again in his life. Sorrel gurgled on his shoulder before spitting up; as he was putting her back in the cot, Derek’s hand reached out. Sighing, Stiles budged Rowan over a little so he could tuck Sorrel up against Derek’s chest.

Leaving the family on the ancient pull-out, Stiles disappeared into the bathroom to collect himself. Dealing with three tiny children and an unconscious alpha was one thing. Dealing with a very much conscious but still not healing alpha and his three tiny children was another thing altogether.

Stiles had been winging it, honestly, the last few days. But suddenly the man was actually awake and the domestic bliss Stiles had somehow managed to cultivate around himself since the children had arrived was shattering around him. He had no plan for this. Had barely given it any thought beyond hoping the man would wake up if only to spare the children the grief of loosing a parent.

And he still didn't have any answers. Was no closer to knowing why on earth Derek had rocked up at his cabin out of the blue, no clue who or what they were running from, no idea how he was injured. It was like being back at square one, recklessly bring in the strays he had found hiding behind his woodpile.

When he re-emerged after his shower, dressed in a clean t-shirt and sweats, the family was fast asleep. It was early so he set about pulling out the ingredient for bread, absentmindedly following a recipe he knew by heart. Another one from his mother. Setting a charm to knead the bread – because god knew he didn't have the patience for it – he put on his winter gear and headed out to the chickens, chatting quietly to them as he fed them and collected the eggs.

Once the dough was kneaded Stiles set it in a bowl to rise before slinking back into his bedroom with Roscoe on his heels and going back to bed for a few hours.

-|-

When Stiles woke up again, it was to a small body climbing onto his bed and shaking him awake.

“I’m hungry,” Asp complained. “Papa’s still sleeping.”

“Alright buddy,” Stiles yawned, pushing the covers back and getting up, not bothering to change out of his sweats. “You want to help make breakfast?” Asp nodded enthusiastically.

The two of them finish making the bread, setting the table, cooking up some sausages and eggs as well as making batter for pancakes. The smells eventually raised the others, Derek blinking warily over at them, eyes watching the way Asp interacted with Stiles.

“Do you want to sit at the table or eat where you are?” Stiles asked.

“I set the table!” Asp grinned proudly.

“Then the table it is,” Derek smiled easily at his son, shifting awkwardly on the bed. Stiles came over and extracted Sorrel, who was fast asleep. She must be the envy of every other parent. Rowan proved a harder obstacle, clinging to Derek like a limpet.

“Come on little man, I’ve got some scraps you can give to Roscoe if you let your papa go for a second,” Stiles bribed, ignoring Derek’s unimpressed eyebrow. “And we’re having pancakes today, do you like pancakes?”

“Ro, you have to let go so I can get up,” Derek muttered into Rowan’s hair. “You can sit on my lap at the table,” he compromised, finally getting Rowan’s attention. The little boy reluctantly pulled his face out of Derek’s neck and looked around.

Roscoe chose that moment to shove his head onto the bed, instantly captivating the boy’s attention. Leaving one hand fisted in Derek’s hair, he reached out to stroke the dog. Who was just an inch too far away. Roscoe wagged his tail and Rowan made a distressed noise.

“You have to let go Ro, just for a moment… So you can pet the doggie,” Derek sighed, looking a little pained at Stiles’ gleeful expression. Finally Rowan let go of Derek and moved to the edge of the bed to pet Roscoe, turning his gaze on Stiles and raising his eyebrows in a very pointed way. It was a look Stiles was fast becoming familiar with.

“The scraps are over on the counter,” Stiles told him. “I’m not bringing them here,” he said before Rowan could even think about putting his big eyes to use to guilt Stiles into doing his bidding. “Come on,” he offered his hand, which Rowan ignored, but he did slide off the bed and follow Stiles to the kitchen area.

Behind them Derek groaned as he sat up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come check me out on [tumblr](http://taliskermortem.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it! Please leave comments as they can be very inspiring!


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